One hates to lay down this novel, which holds the reader fascinated by the strange fate of its sensitive heroine. She it is for whom life, and the loves which come to her, spell "Sacrifice," till the final climax, when, sacrificing her repugnances and fears, this hothouse flower of New York society undergoes the savage dangers and exotic menaces of Africa's far-off jungle trail.

She wondered who this young man was, who might have been another Robert Schumann, but now was dying.

CHAPTER IV

Of all her suitors the most persistent was Cornelius Rysbroek.

In their childhood he had drawn for her amusement Spanish galleons, the domes of Mogul palaces, and a fantastic damsel, that he called a bayadere, languishing on a balcony. His thin, sallow little face bent close to the printed page, he had read Ivanhoe to her. At parties, it was she to whom he had brought the choicest favors.

Departing to school, he had addressed her in melancholy verses--doggerel decorated with references to flowers turned to dust, setting suns that would never rise again, countless symbols of hopeless passion and impending tragedy.

But, as an anti-climax, he always showed up alive in vacation time.

During his college years he had apparently forgotten her, had made himself conspicuous by some highly pessimist